


Pray to Me

by SailorChibi



Category: Sherlock (TV), Supernatural
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Angels, First Kiss, Fluff, Get Together, Grace - Freeform, Humor, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mycroft cares, Mycroft's Umbrella, Post season three, Sherlock Cares, Sherlock and Mycroft fight like little kids, Vessels, exasperated!John, far more than they want to, it serves a purpose, john the long suffering human, meaning there's a possibility for season three spoilers, more putting elements of supernatural into Sherlock, mycroft the angel, not really a crossover, sherlock the angel, where they live because I said so
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-19
Updated: 2014-07-19
Packaged: 2018-02-09 11:23:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1981074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SailorChibi/pseuds/SailorChibi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Oh, I may be on the side of the angels, but don't think for one second that I am one of them.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>It’s hard when a lie catches up with you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pray to Me

**Author's Note:**

> That line of Sherlock's about not being an angel really stuck with me, and now that my obsession with Supernatural has basically become full blown I couldn't help combining the two into this quick little one shot.
> 
> You don't really need to know anything about Supernatural to read this, just that in season 9 of the show all of the angels were cast out of heaven and it was basically a Big Deal.

It had been an exceedingly long week, and the sight of Mrs Hudson hastily drawing her coat ‘round herself as she stepped outside did little to lift John’s low spirit. Having been partial to this exact scene too many times before, he could wager a guess as to exactly what – or rather, who – would be enough to make her flee the premises. The list was fairly short and was comprised of just one person.

“Mrs Hudson,” he called out, shuffling to a stop beside the steps. 

“Oh, John, thank heavens you’re home.” There was an unprecedented amount of relief in Mrs Hudson’s face and John tensed automatically. Visions of another explosion at Baker Street flashed through his mind, at odds with the fact that the flat still appeared to be wholly intact. But knowing Sherlock Holmes, the actual explanation was not something that John would ever think or want to come up with, ranging from an experiment gone wrong to an assassin.

“What’s he done now?” John asked warily, reaching out a hand to help her down the steps. 

“It’s not him. It’s his brother.”

“Shit,” John muttered, and then – “Oh, sorry, Mrs Hudson.”

“Not a problem, dear, especially if you can keep those two from tearing the place apart. I’ve heard them argue before, but never like this.”

John sighed. “Why don’t you go out for a nice dinner? I’ll deal with those two.” He shot her an encouraging smile and waited for her to leave before he let himself into the building. Even downstairs, he could clearly hear the sounds of two familiar voices raised in anger – though, curiously, he did not recognize the language they were shouting in. It was something deep and guttural but strangely fluid, and he knew enough to recognize that it wasn’t German or French.

“What’re you idiots up to now…” 

Sherlock was still yelling something as John opened the door, and he spun away from his brother in an exaggerated flounce to throw himself down on the sofa. Mycroft looked completely _done_ with the whole situation, a level of exasperation that only a Holmes was capable of achieving. John’s eyes flicked from one to the other, assessing their moods, before he stepped inside. He could tell that they had been fighting for a while, but neither one seemed to be ready to give up and that meant he was going to have to intervene.

“Hello, John,” Mycroft said finally, giving his brother one last disgusted glare before he forced a smile for John’s benefit. 

“Mycroft. Always a pleasure to come home and find you here,” said John, his tone making it clear that he was actually not pleased in the slightest.

“Forgive my intrusion, but I am having difficulty convincing Sherlock that he needs to come with me. Perhaps you will have more luck.”

“Where to?”

“Nowhere.”

“Home.”

They spoke at exactly the same time and then glared at each other, exactly like a couple of recalcitrant children. John had to bite his lip to hide his smile.

“You went home at Christmas last year,” he said to Mycroft. “Are your parents sick?”

“Not that home, John.”

John raised an eyebrow. “You have more than one?”

“Don’t,” Sherlock warned, rising up and pointing a finger at his brother.

“Pray tell, what else do you expect me to do, Sherlock? You won’t listen to me. John may well be the only person who can make you see reason.”

“No, he won’t! I’m not going. I don’t care about them.”

“Really,” Mycroft scoffed. “You have no care at all for our brothers and sisters who were cast out? No curiosity as to how it happened or why? No remorse for those who did not survive the fall?”

Sherlock’s expression was venomous. “You are the one who told me that caring is not an advantage.”

“So it is not, and yet I find these human emotions have gripped me more tightly than I expected. I am possessed with a desire for vengeance that is not at _all_ logical.” Mycroft’s umbrella thumped the floor lightly in his agitated state. 

“Then get better control of yourself, because it’s none of our concern.”

“What the hell are you two talking about?” John interrupted before Mycroft could answer, if only because he could tell the tension between the two brothers was about to boil over again and he had no desire to stand here while they screamed at each other in a language he didn’t understand. “You two have more siblings?” He tried, and probably failed, to conceal his horror at that fact.

"My apologies, John," Mycroft murmured. "Sometimes I forget that there are still some things that Sherlock has not yet made you aware of.”

It was John’s turn to tense, just a little, because he would never forget what happened the last time Sherlock concealed _things_ from him. The memory of Sherlock's fall still haunted him at night. “What do you mean?”

When the silence dragged on and it became blindingly apparent Sherlock had no intent of breaking it, Mycroft sighed. “We are not human, John. We’re angels.”

“Angels,” John repeated sceptically, and Sherlock snorted. 

Mycroft ignored him and said, “Yes. Several years ago we became… dissatisfied with the way that heaven was being handled and made the decision to take vessels so that we could live on Earth. Of course, it meant that we had to stage our deaths so that no one would look for us.” 

“Of course. So you’ve had practice at this,” John said to Sherlock, and he meant for it to come out a lot more light-hearted than it actually did.

Sherlock sighed deeply, finally swinging his legs to the floor and lurching upright into a seated position at the same time. He was still glaring at Mycroft, but he spoke to John. “Heaven was completely boring, John. Everything was so strict and ordered and you were just expected to obey. Always obey, that’s an angel’s highest prerogative.” He scoffed. “Humanity, by contrast, was a mess. Can you blame me for wanting to have a closer look at something that was actually interesting for once?”

“It was only meant to be for a short time,” Mycroft explained. “But someone didn’t want to go home.”

“I like it here.”

“We’re _angels_ , Sherlock. Especially now, with everything that’s happening –”

“I already told you, I’m not –”

“Enough!”

John hadn’t meant to shout, but at least it had the desired effect of making them both shut up. He looked back and forth between them, trying to figure out the end game here. The Holmes brothers did nothing without reason, but this was childish and he couldn’t believe they were actually going so far as to pretend otherwise. Angels? Really?

“You don’t believe us,” Mycroft murmured, not sounding very surprised. “I can prove it.” He stepped towards John, hand outstretched, and Sherlock leapt up but he was too late. Mycroft’s fingertips brushed against the back of John’s hand. It was a very light touch, hardly there, and yet it left John feeling as though he’d been plunged into icy water.

It lasted for only a few seconds, but it still left his breath tight in his chest. Mycroft had retreated and now he stood there, watching John expectantly. So did Sherlock, though his expression was more akin to fear. John blinked back at them. At first he wasn’t sure what that touch was meant to have done, or even if it had done anything at all. But gradually it dawned on him. His shoulder no longer ached.

The wound had healed for the most part, but often – particularly with the rainy weather London was famous for – it would hurt, sometimes as badly as when he’d first received it. It got worse after Sherlock pulled him from that fire, when the muscles were wrenched in the panic. His doctor had told him that it would always be that way, and John had learned to live with it. But now the pain was gone, like it had never been, and when he yanked the collar of his jumper up to see the skin underneath was smooth and unblemished.

He stared in amazement. “How…”

“You took your grace back already,” Sherlock accused, turning on Mycroft.

“I did.”

“How long ago?”

Mycroft said nothing, which was answer enough.

“Ridiculous! And I bet you’ve got your sword hidden in your umbrella, haven’t you, Hamaliel?” Sherlock hissed. “I wondered why you would have bothered to bring it. You always did think yourself important enough to warrant that.”

Had Mycroft been capable of blushing, he might have. Instead, he scowled furiously. “It was for the best.”

“They could find us now!”

“There is no one left to find us,” Mycroft said wearily, his words heavy with unspoken grief. “They’ve fallen; heaven is closed. I could tell the difference instantly. Sherlock, I know you like it here. I know you’ve built a life for yourself.” He glanced at John pointedly. “Consider this my assurance to you that once the situation has been resolved, you can come back if you want.”

“And you’re not just making sure that John would be left wondering?” Sherlock sneered.

“That too, should the worst happen.”

“Okay,” John said, because he did not like the direction this conversation was going in. “Obviously there’s a huge chunk of this I’m missing, but –” His brain didn’t want to accept this. _Angels_. The idea was foreign. And yet… he checked the flesh on his shoulder again. Still like new. He looked up. “I get that your family or whatever is in trouble, and you want to go help. I think you should.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft said.

Sherlock stared at him and then abruptly turned and walked out of the room. John sighed and didn't hesitate to follow, pushing past Mycroft. He was a little surprised to walk into Sherlock's bedroom and find that Sherlock hadn't just curled up in a petulant ball on the bed. Instead, he was rummaging around in a drawer. Whatever he was looking for seemed to be well hidden, as it took him a little while before he straightened up again. He turned to John and hesitated before opening his hand.

It was a vial, about the length of John’s hand, but the substance inside was unlike anything John had seen before. Not a liquid, but not a gas or solid either, and it was a brilliant shade of white tinged with just a hint of pale blue. He couldn’t look at it for more than a second or two before his eyes watered and he had to blink. Dark spots danced in front of his eyes, like he’d been looking at the sun.

“I don’t want to go back,” Sherlock said quietly as John swore and rubbed at his eyes. “I like it here.”

“You can come back,” John said, suddenly a little worried. He’d never seen Sherlock act like this before. Sure there were times when he would avoid something for childish reasons, but nothing had ever _scared_ Sherlock before. Not like this. Not even Moriarty. “I mean… Sherlock, if this is going to put you in danger then maybe you shouldn’t go.”

“That’s the problem with a sibling. Mycroft won’t shut up unless I give in and go. I knew I should’ve left him behind,” Sherlock muttered with a roll of his eyes. 

“In, um. In heaven?”

“Yes. He knew that I was planning to take a vessel and tear out my grace. I’m still not sure why he bothered to follow. He was happy up there, where everything is logical and orderly. Humanity doesn’t make sense, not the way Mycroft wants them to.”

It wasn’t easy for John to wrap his mind around this, but he gave it his best shot. “Maybe he was bored, too.”

Sherlock blinked, as though surprised.

“Frankly you kind of sound like you want to go, too,” John continued, carefully not looking at that vial. He wasn’t completely sure what it was, but he knew Sherlock better than anyone – barring Mycroft, of course. The only reason Sherlock would’ve taken it out was if he was truly torn.

“They were so boring.”

“But they’re still your family, and it’s your home.”

“Would you…” Sherlock trailed off, and John made an encouraging sound. “Would you… be here waiting for me?”

Oh. John steeled himself a little, shocked that Sherlock had actually asked. He knew how hard it had been for Sherlock to return to London and realize that John had moved on, even though they had deliberately never discussed it. But for Sherlock to have come right out and asked – it had to have shaken him to his very core, penetrating so much deeper than John had ever imagined. It was staggering to have even this hint as to how much Sherlock valued their partnership.

“Yes, I will,” he said hoarsely, meeting Sherlock’s eyes so that Sherlock would be able to tell he was serious. “I have a lot of questions for you, after all. And this time I promise not to punch you in the face.”

Sherlock cracked a smile. “How will I even know I’m home, then?”

“I’ll greet you another way,” John suggested, and when he crossed the distance between them Sherlock did not pull away. It gave him the courage to lean in and press a tender kiss against those trembling lips, one that lasted only a moment but hopefully spoke volumes.

“I’d like that,” Sherlock whispered, eyes fluttering open. “John…”

“It’s okay. I won’t tell anyone, and I’ll be here.” John squeezed his hand, the one that held the vial. He wasn’t lying. He had so many questions for Sherlock. Was his name really Sherlock? Why had he and Mycroft not interfered with Mary’s death? How old was he? Had he ever planned to tell John the truth? But he knew that it was best if he waited to ask, until he had had time to come to terms with this astonishing revelation.

The vial flared, strangely warm between them, when Sherlock gave a shy smile. “I probably won’t be able to contact you right away. But if you… if you pray to me… I’ll hear you.”

“Pray to you?”

“Yes. Say my name, Kabniel, and I will hear you.”

“Kabniel,” John echoed, shivering a little at both the promise and the hunger that flashed in Sherlock’s eyes when John said his name.

“Close your eyes.”

John obeyed as Sherlock brought his hand up to crack the vial open, but it still wasn’t enough protection. The light was searing even against his closed lids, so painful and so overwhelming he had to bring his hands up. It was so very warm, though, enfolding him in what felt like an embrace, and he felt the same gentle pressure against his lips right before the light faded away again.

He was cautious in opening his eyes, even though he knew the light – that Sherlock – was gone. Suddenly the flat seemed empty in a way that it had not been for a very long time. This was why he’d moved out in the first place, because being there without Sherlock was too painful, and he wondered if this time he would be better able to tolerate it. 

Mycroft was gone too, of course, when John left the bedroom, though his umbrella had been discarded on the floor. John picked it up and set it by the door before he sat down on the sofa. It was strange to see the umbrella there, and yet it was also comforting. If nothing else, Mycroft would return for that.

For several minutes he just sat, absorbing the past hour as best that he could – which was probably not very well at all – before a thought struck him. He got to his feet with amazing ease, feeling a sense of lightness that he hadn’t been capable of in years, and crossed over to where Sherlock’s laptop had been set up on the table. It was still on, because Sherlock was too lazy to power his computer down, and John swung the screen towards him and opened up a new search page. He typed in a name.

_Kabniel: the angel who is invoked to cure stupidity in humans._

John couldn’t help it; he laughed.

**Author's Note:**

> For anyone who might be curious, Hamaliel is the angel of logic who aids humans in increasing their abilities to think in an orderly and logical manner.
> 
> Fuel your own obsessions; come visit me on [tumblr](http://tsuki-chibi.tumblr.com/)!


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